Consent
by Dark Caustic
Summary: The apocalypse is in full swing and most of your friends are dead and the Devil is wearing your little brother around like a cocktail dress (because Sammy's crazy, I'll-jump-in-the-hole plan didn't work), and he's standing in the doorway wanting to strike a deal: Let him touch you and he'll let you talk to Sammy. An alternate ending to season 5.


**Consent**

You guess things could be worse. You know, just in that vague grand scheme sort of way. Yeah, the apocalypse is in full swing and most of your friends are dead and the Devil is wearing your little brother around like a cocktail dress (because Sammy's crazy, I'll-jump-in-the-hole plan didn't work), but things could actually be worse.

You're like the king's jester. Or maybe dancing monkey is a better description. Either way, it means you spend your days holed up in Satan's house, with a dozen demons or so, but the thing is, they leave you alone. They don't torture you or even really talk to you much for that matter.

Lucifer thinks you're funny or pretty or something. You're still not sure what the details are. Maybe he just thinks this is the worst punishment. Keeping you alive and healthy while everything else goes, quite literally, to hell.

But no one hurts you and they let you fix up classic cars and listen to whatever music is tickling your fancy at that moment, so, yeah, in the grand scheme of things, it could be worse.

Lucifer lets you distract yourself from reality, for the first time in your whole bloody life, and maybe he think's it's funny, or maybe he thinks it's the best way to hurt you, but either way, it's better than the alternative.

Right?

XX

Satan's not actually in the house all that much. Probably out killing people or smiting angels or rubbing elbows with politicians or something. They don't really tell you a lot about what's going on outside and even when you can get a decent signal on the radio, all the talk hosts are demon meat puppets so you are still kind of left in the dark regardless.

When he is around, he wants you to have dinner with him. Not in a Rob Zombie movie, tie-you-to-a-chair, sort of way, but in a, hey, Dean, why don't you join me for supper if you are feeling up to it?

No one has beat you yet for ignoring the Devil's dinner dates. So that's something.

And before you know it, Satan has been snug and cozy in Sam's skin for six months and he's standing in the doorway to your bedroom, leaning against the frame, dressed better than Sam ever did in an expensive button-down shirt, tie and ironed jeans.

He raps on the door with two knuckles even though you both know he's there, but you turn to face him anyways, trying to look past your little brother's face to see the demonic angel beneath. You don't say anything.

"May I come in?" The devil asks.

You shrug. "It's your house, right?"

"But it's your room," the devil says.

You want to make a joke that he's not a vampire but the words die in your throat and you nod instead. "Sure."

Lucifer enters your room and sits on the edge of your bed in your brother's skin, clasping his hands together and resting them in his lap, slumping his shoulders slightly, all in all, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible.

Doesn't phase you, though. You keep your back straight, your shoulders stiff as you lean back against the old desk in the room.

"He's still alive, Dean," Lucifer says.

"Who is?" you ask.

"Sammy."

You're quiet for a second, and then sternly, cause you can't help yourself, "You don't get to call him that."

The devil chuckles. "My apologies. Samuel is still alive," he says.

"Yeah, well, fat lot of good it's doing him while you're in there."

"That's what I want to talk to you about," the devil says.

"What? You're going to hand the reigns over to Sam?"

"I was thinking about it," Satan says. Casually.

Your tongue sticks on the inside of your mouth. "Come again?"

"Well, not permanently, but you want to talk to him, don't you?"

You grow very cold, from the inside out and don't respond.

"I want to make a deal with you, Dean," Lucifer continues. "I'll give control back to Sam, for a few hours, for you."

"What's the catch?" you ask, because this is the Devil and you know there must be one.

"You have to let me touch you."

All your skin crawls. In fact, if it could, it would crawl away.

Satan gets up, looming over you in Sammy's too-tall body. You think he's going to lay a hand on you, but he doesn't. He just smiles at you.

"I'll let you think about it," he says. "If you like the deal, come to my room tonight. If you don't," he shrugs, "No hard feelings."

And leaves.

You sink to the floor as the nausea hits you. Let the devil touch you?

But you do think about it. You sit right there with your eyes closed tight, tight and you think about it.

You think about Sam in your arms while that house burned down. You think about making him dinner cause dad wasn't around. You think about saving him from the werewolf that tried to eat him when he was thirteen. You think about how bad it hurt when he ran away. You think about teaching him to drive, and teaching him to talk to chicks. You think about him getting on a bus and leaving you behind.

You think about Cold Oak.

You think about Cold Oak _a lot_.

You think about Sammy lying dead with a knife wound to the back and you think about your thirty years in hell and you think about Sammy's stupid plan.

Sure, Sammy, overpower Satan, jump in the hole.

Save us all.

XX

Finally, you think about Sammy singing along to "Wanted Dead or Alive," with you, near the end, and the world seems to get real big and then real small and clicks into place.

XX

At first, you decide not to shower or shave. Let the devil cut himself on your rough cheek. But then you're not sure you want Sammy to see you _like this. _ Rough around the edges and worse for wear. So you do; you shower and shave and you stand in front of the mirror and look at your body.

Look at the lack of what fat you did have totally gone.

Look at the lack of your muscle, gone soft.

Now all wiry joints and ankles and hollows. You have to tear your gaze away.

You debate what you should wear, and finally settle on nothing but a robe because you don't trust yourself not to bolt while he undresses you if you wear more clothes than that.

XX

The house is dark and quiet. The demons that normally lurk about are nowhere to be found, maybe out securing the grounds or tucked away into their rooms. There are lots of rooms here. You avoid going in them, though.

That doesn't mean you don't know which one is _his_.

It's on the opposite side of the house. He probably spread you two out like that as some sort of placating gesture to make you feel like you had some space.

It didn't work.

But, nonetheless, you descend the stairs, cross the library, living room and kitchen and end up there, at the devil's bedroom door.

You stand outside for a moment and debate between knocking or just walking in.

Lucifer knocked for you earlier, but, then again, he did _invite_ you (your stomach flips again) so you decide to just go in.

XX

He's standing by the window with a glass of wine. You always get skeeved out by that sense of _wrongness_ every time you see him, because you are seeing your little brother's body, his face, his features, but nothing about the way he moves reminds you even the slightest bit of your brother.

He smiles at you and you close the door behind you and just stand there. Let him take what he wants.

"I see you've decided to join me," he says, and offers you a glass of wine that you decline.

"Alright," he mutters, drains his own glass.

You want to fidget, cross your arms or put them in your pockets or something, but you don't.

"It's all right, Dean," he says to you. Kindly.

"No it's not," you say.

The devil huffs. For a moment he looks like Sam. "If you don't want to do this, you are free to leave."

The silence empties between you a moment.

"I want to see my brother."

"Okay then," the devil says and steps in close to you. You feel his breath on you, feel his warmth near you. Sam's warmth. He raises his right hand, palm inward and stretches the back of his fingers towards your face.

You close your eyes. Brace for impact.

"May I touch you?" Lucifer asks, his voice soft.

You open your eyes again and look into those hazel ones. Sammy. Not Sammy. Your chest tightens.

"Why do you even ask?" you demand. He's the devil. He should be evil. He should just take, not ask permission making you feel like you have _some_ semblance of control.

The devil drops his hand. "I had to get Sam's permission to use his flesh. Why would I touch you without your consent?"

You nod, because it makes sense, a little. "Okay. Yes. You can touch me, if I get to talk to Sam again."

The devil smiles. He grasps the cord of your rob in one hand and leans in close, till his lips are beside your ear. "If it makes it easier for you, you can call me by his name," he hisses.

Then his other hand is insistent, on the small of your back as he tugs the robe open, pushes his hand, Sam's hand, inside. And he's warm. His huge palm on your stomach is so warm.

His hand follows along the curve of your stomach till it reaches the small of your back and rests there while his other hand comes up, starting at your navel and ghosting over your muscles, your chest, till it reaches your shoulders. He tips his fingers under the fabric of your rob, pushes it off your shoulders and it falls with a small _whump_ to the ground.

Leaving you naked in front of the Devil who is wearing your brother's flesh.

You wonder if Sammy's seeing this, feeling this and have to repress a shiver, wavering for a moment over whether or not to meet his eyes, but then you do, and you stare into them hard and remind yourself who is really staring back.

He runs Sam's hands over you. Both from the curve of your back, up to your shoulders, down your chest, pausing to thumb at both nipples, and back along your hips to rest at the top of your ass.

He presses himself against you, hot and solid and thick muscle. More muscle than Sam was when he was in control of that body.

You stand there, statue still, hands limp at your sides, not even clenching your fists, looking over his shoulder and out the window where the sun is setting. Detaching.

He breathes, in and out, long and deep, twice. Then smells your hair, and says, "Touch me."

You flounder. You want to yell that that wasn't part of the deal and shove him away. You said he could touch you, you never said you would touch him.

But Sam's in there somewhere, and maybe Sam can see this or feel this, and it might be a bit better for _him_ if you didn't just lie there like a limp fish the whole time.

And the idea of making love (did you seriously just think the words "making love?") to your brother is less of a squick factor than getting fucked by the devil. You know what they say about the lesser of two evils…

So you pull off his tie and you unbutton his shirt. It takes you several tries though, your hands are shaking. You get stuck trying to undo the top button of his pants. You can barely breathe through the nerves, and Lucifer takes your hand in his, gently, like a guide dog, brings it to his lips. He kisses your fingers so softly it's almost sensual, closing his eyes as he does it. Lets his lips linger a moment then turns your hand over and kisses the palm.

Looks up at you and those hazel eyes are burning. You swallow and then he's kissing _you_.

One hand wrapped back around your head to tip you into the kiss, the other on your hip. It's not a _bad_ kiss, technique wise, just a little suggestion of tongue across your lower lip, the huff of his breath out of his nose, dusting across your skin. Your faces fit together kind of perfectly. Like you were made for this.

He's turning you in little shuffles till the back of your knees hit the bed without breaking the kiss till he tips you over and you flop back into the blankets.

You still feel bow-string taut with anxiety and it's only getting worse as he backs off just a little to fully undress, staring into your eyes the whole time.

Then you're looking at Sammy naked. He's all long lines and cut muscle, tanned skin like maybe Lucifer has taken him for a few lie downs in the sun, and you wonder, vaguely if he's let anyone else touch your little brother's body like this.

That just makes your stomach experiment in pretzel shapes so you stop that line of thought and instead stretch out your hand for him.

He slots your fingers together and climbs on top of you, a knee on either side of your waist. Runs his hand down your chest, taking a moment to trace around your tattoo, smirks a little, leans in and kisses it, then sinks his teeth into the meat of your shoulder and you involuntarily twitch into it.

He bites you again, a little higher up and grinds down into you and your treacherous body responds, starting to chub up.

You try to think of leg hair on old men, of children playing with dog shit, of that time you walked in on Bobby in the shower, of Sammy in the pit forever, but then he sinks his teeth into the pulse point of your throat and all attempts to derail your physical response go to hell. You squeeze his hand, hard, and your other hand climbs the curve of his spine, mapping out his vertebra.

"Not so bad, is it?" he whispers, breath hot across your ear.

"Sammy," you grunt. Regret it the moment it's out.

He gives a low, throaty chuckles and returns to nipping and sucking at your flesh.

The hand you have plastered on his back keeps running up and down. Sam's skin is smooth, almost silky. You'd call it girly if he could hear you. That thought makes you close your eyes. Pretend it is Sammy.

Wonder if you'd always get hard for Sammy or if this is some sort of defense mechanism.

Either way, the devil takes advantage of it, grabs on and you gasp, the hand on his back pulling him in closer.

"That's it, Dean," he mutters into your jaw and then he's kissing you again and you're kissing him back, tangling your hand in his long hair, grateful that he kept that quirk of Sam's.

He jerks you a few times till you're completely hard and bucking back against him, then he leans back and smiles down at you. Debauched. Lips puffy, running his hand slicked with your pre-come down Sam's muscled chest, leaving a wet streak to his cock. Which he palms, strokes twice, and you make a choked noise down in your throat as your skin gets about a thousand times hotter.

He runs his hands from your ankles up the insides of your legs to your knees and gently presses them back till they're beside your chest and he's on top of you looking smug, lips turned up a little. "Hold on," he husks, smoky voice.

What choice do you have? You grab your knees and keep them back.

The devil sits back again on his haunches and looks at you, holding yourself open for his inspection. The bastard is smiling.

The shame hits you hard and heavy. It claws up out of your gut and you close your eyes as you turn red and start to wilt.

Only to have him press his body back into you, running his hands up your body, from hips to collarbones. Nuzzles at you, nips at the edge of your mouth.

"Dean," he grunts out your name and sounds just like Sammy. Well, a sex-crazed Sammy.

You keep your hands where they are as he curls one hand around your head to bring you into a kiss and wraps his other fist around your cock again, moving tantalizingly slow, stroking you back to hardness as he kisses you. Kisses _into_ you, tongue searching out yours, pressing against it, daring it to work back.

You grunt, buck up and sob, all at once.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the face. "It's okay, Dean," he says.

His hand keeps working you, gathering pre-come off the slit and then, and then…

Travelling lower, pressing the pad of one finger to your hole.

You tense all over.

He leans back in to suck a bruise onto your neck as he pushes into your body.

You grunt as he rests his head in the crook between your throat and shoulder. Pushes all the way into the knuckle and whispers, "Good boy."

Then he drags them out, only to come back with two fingers and shove them in. Rough. Fast. Hard.

You gasp, ride the razor edge of pain as he demands pleasure out of your body, going right for the sweet spot like he's done this to you before.

You let go of your knees and grasp onto his shoulders. They're thin and bony and jeeze, Sam is so _young_.

"Sammy," you plead as he sets up a harsh rhythm. "Sam."

But he's stroking right there and _fuck_.

"Please," you choke out.

Lucifer chews on your neck, shoulder, jaw, ear, kisses every inch of you he can reach and you squirm back into him and away again, one rebellious hand plastered to his back again, the other hanging onto the sheets for dear life.

"Please, please," you pant.

Sam's eyes swim into your vision as he gets a third finger in. "Please what?" he asks.

"Let me," you beg, but he gets a good stroke in and you gasp.

He laughs. "Let you what?"

"Turn over. Please," you say. "Please," you beg.

He stills, wearing Sam's hurt face so well you almost cave but you hold your ground.

Your hands search out over his chest, thumbs brushing nipples, breastbone, catching on his clavicles. You beg with your whole body, maybe so he won't make you explain yourself to him.

Lucifer leans back in, licks at your mouth again and you open up, suck Sam's soft tongue in and his hand starts stroking again. Your hips move of their own accord, snapping your cock up into his hand, harder and harder, till you're making desperate little noises on every down stroke.

He tears away from you, panting, leaking, hard as fuck and says, "Alright," pulling his hand out.

You almost chase it, but then blink up at him. What?

He waits.

Oh.

You turn over, start to prostrate yourself but he catches your hips and pulls them up, pressing his hot chest across your back till his lips are at your ear again. "Hands and knees," he says and then sucks at the top of your spine.

That makes your back arch and you hold onto the comforter with both hands.

The bed shifts as he gets up. You look over your shoulder for half a second but then stare down at your hands again, unsure of yourself.

Somewhere off to your left you here a small click and then begin to smell grapes.

Huh. The devil likes grape scented lube.

Some strange twisted part of you finds this very funny and you have to bite back a wild giggle. Which helps to distract you a bit from the fact that the _devil_ is getting slicked up to fuck you.

And you're not even in hell.

When you feel the bed shift behind you, you grab onto the blanket with both hands and white knuckle it.

His thighs press up against yours and you can feel the tip of his cock _right there_ but he doesn't go for it just yet. First he runs his hand down your back. Lightly. It almost tickles, but slides over to delicious instead.

Then he asserts himself over you, flushing his chest across your back, one arm next to yours, the other curving up over your chest, forcing you tighter to him yet.

He slides forward a little, but not _in_ yet, and grabs hold of your chin with the arm snug over your torso.

"Dean," he says and nudges your face towards him, over your own shoulder.

The position is a little more than awkward, but Sam is long and he lays his lips against yours again, hand still locked on your jaw, and kisses you. Kisses you very sloppily.

It takes you a second to get with the program, but then you do and close your eyes and suck it up and kiss the hell back.

He gets into it, starts grinding against you a little and his mouth is all kinds of demanding, lips sometimes flush with yours, sometimes gliding over your jaw, and teeth getting in on the action, nibbling at your skin, nipping at your mouth and then –

"Ouch," you grunt as you yank your lower lip out of his teeth and taste blood.

That happens to be the exact moment he decides to go for _it_, snapping his hips forward and shoving all the way till he's literally, balls to the walls.

Grunting, you throw your head down into the covers.

Over you, the devil mutters, "Fuck. Tight. Jeeze. _Dean_."

The hand that's released your jaw is now rubbing circles on your hip that you think are supposed to be comforting, but aren't at all.

"Come on, Dean," he coos, voice rumbling through his chest and into your torso where you are pressed, flesh to flesh.

He kisses down your throat, along your shoulder, runs his hand from your hip, up your chest, back down your chest and nestles it between your legs and _hello_.

"Relax," he whispers as he starts to stroke you back to hardness. Gentle and teasing. "Breathe," he says, fingers skirting over the crown.

You have no choice but to obey, gasping through the pain, forehead resting on the blanket between your hands, trying to cling onto reality. Stretched out over him, sweat streaming down your skin. There is _so much_ of him; it feels like he's pushing into your chest cavity.

He continues to kiss you, lips warm and inviting all over your back, up your throat, right behind your ear and back down. He grinds into you a little, but doesn't push it too much. Gives you time to adjust, easing you with his hand till you do relax. First in your shoulders, and then in your hands, the death-grip you have on the covers going lax.

"That's it," he whispers as your body finally starts to respond, sliding forward into his hand and pushing back into him. Ever so slightly.

But enough for him to notice and laugh, causing a blush to creep from your ears all the way down your body.

"It's okay. You're all right," he says and yanks you a little bit harder, forcing a cry out of you, gripping the blankets again.

He shushes you, strokes his hand down your back again and then returns it to between your legs and resumes stroking.

He starts shallow, little thrusts, and builds from there, dropping his head down to press his face into the space between your shoulder blades as he picks up rhythm.

It's not all unpleasant, you know, in that grand-scheme of things way. You haven't been fucked by a guy since that experimental phase you went through while Sam was away at college, and haven't had any action (except with your right hand) since the apocalypse started.

As much as you hate to admit it, he knows what he's doing. He reaches lower, palms at your balls, strokes the underside of your shaft and follows through with a good-hearted tug. Part of you becomes hyper curious as to _why_ he's good at this but you push that thought out of your head and ride it out.

"You feel," he grunts, nips at your ear, "so good. So slick, tight, hot. Damn," he mutters, dragging one thrust out till only the head of his dick stretches you open and then pushes back in slowly. "Fuck. Dean."

You push back into him with your hips and try to focus on only the sensation, not the who.

His pace kicks up and the hand on your cock moves faster, begins to demand pleasure from your body.

He breathes hot and heavy in your ear as he continues the litany of "tight" and "hot" and "so good" and "Dean." All in Sam's voice.

It goes on for a while. You don't know how long. You close your eyes and ride the edge of pleasure, where he's hitting the right spots inside of you and stroking you with a prefect grip on the outside.

The room is full of your harsh breathing and the sound of his flesh slapping yours, the feeling of his (Sammy's) balls smacking into your ass.

Then he sinks all the way inside you and closes his mouth over your ear again for a moment, releasing it and telling you to, "Say his name."

You blink open your eyes, mind foggy and hazy with the attempt to detach from the experience. "What?"

Suddenly the Devil's hand is tight on your hip, fingernails digging in. "Say his name. Call me by his name," he says.

"What? No!"

The hand on your hip starts to pull on you. "Then turn over. Those are your choices," he says.

If you were close to orgasm, you're suddenly not now. Your mouth goes dry as a coldness washes through you, but you nod. "Okay, Sammy, okay."

The Devil picks up like he never stopped, fast and hard, one hand planted by yours to keep him up, the other running the length of your cock again. "Yeah," his voice ghosts over the shell of your ear. "Yeah."

"Sam," you grunt, thrusting back, your body getting back with the program. "Sam," and your hand, without your fucking permission, slides over to grab onto his.

He loses rhythm, just drives into you hard, never pulling out very far, alternating between chewing on your shoulder and spitting out curse words and praises.

Your orgasm takes you by surprise, ripping down from your gut, stomach muscles twitching and contracting and finally coming all over his hand, arching your back, squeezing your eyes shut and hanging onto Sam's hand with all your might, panting out, "Sammy, Sam, Sammy. _Fuck," _as you let the heat and pleasure tear through you. Everything tingling and snapping on the inside, muscles clamp-releasing wildly.

Above you, the devil politely waits for you to finish, before laying a really wet kiss on the back of your neck and forcing you completely flat, planting Sammy's massive mitts on your hips and driving into you a few more times before his whole body seizes up and comes deep inside of you. You can feel him twitching and pulsing, hot on you, inside you, hot all over, enveloping you. All the while muttering, "Dean. Yeah. Dean."

The devil relaxes, body splayed out completely over you, keeping you flattened into the wet spot on the bedspread, his breathing rough and ragged and yours not much better. He starts sucking on the hickeys he's left all over your shoulder and neck, while your heartbeats come down from the high. Then he slips out, rolls off to your left side and pulls you from your stomach to your side and kisses you hard.

You close your eyes and let your body respond.

He kisses sweetly, softly, non-demanding, just barely lazing his lips over yours for a few minutes, then stops and rests his forehead against yours.

"Thank you," he says after a moment.

Your mouth is dry and you don't respond. You're not sure if he's going to uphold his end of the deal or not and you don't want to push it. He might not be so _friendly_ about an encounter like this in the future, and, well, if he's going to be ruling the Earth from here on out, staying on his good side is probably in your favor.

He laces your fingers together, sighing deeply and closes his eyes.

You lie and stare at Sam's face, his sun-kissed skin, the mole by his nose, cattycorner the one by his lips, punctuated by the one on his sharp chin.

The grip he has on your hand goes completely loose and you feel it in your bones, feel the world shift, the change in his body is huge, and you see it even though he hasn't moved at all.

But then he does. He opens his eyes and his face aligns itself in to that pained look with his eyebrows stitched together that you've seen a million times as he searches your eyes. "Dean?"

That's not the devil's voice in your brother's body. That's your brother's voice.

"Sammy?" you ask, your voice breaking halfway through.

He pulls his hand out of your grasp and lays it across your face, limply. Like he's just learning how to control his body again. "Dean," he says and brushes his thumb over your jaw.

It's _him_. It's him again, and you wish it wasn't like this, lying in a puddle of your own come (with his come leaking out your ass), both of you naked and flushed in a room that smells like sex and sweat and artificial grapes. You swallow hard and your eyes threaten tears.

"Is that really you?" you ask.

"Yeah," he nods. "Yeah, it's me, Dean."

"Sam," you sob and pull him up against you, wrap your arms tight around him.

It takes him a second to remember how to respond, but then he's clinging to you back, all shaky, like a newborn fawn. You feel him breathing in your scent as you run your hand through his long hair and shush him. "It's okay, Sammy," you say.

He mumbles something into your armpit and you let him go enough for him to look you in the face again. But he doesn't. He keeps his eyes low and you keep your arms on his back, as though _that_ could prevent the devil from taking his consciousness back.

"I failed," he says.

"It's okay," you say, trying to pull him back against you.

"No it's not," he says, resisting.

He looks down at your bodies. "Dean, what did you do? What did _we_ do?"

"It's fine," you try to brush it off but Sam pulls out of your arms to look around the room, to look down at you and you find yourself a bit bashful, pulling the edge of the blanket up over your thighs.

"It's not fine. Did we? Did _I_?" he asks.

"Sam," you say and reach for him again. "Sammy, please."

He must hear the crack in your voice because he stops retreating and comes back to you, lets you put your arms around him again. You trail your fingertips over his flesh. _His _flesh. You swallow. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you…?" you want to know but you don't want to know.

"What, Dean?"

"Conscious? In there? While Lucy is in charge?"

You feel him shrug. "Sometimes," he mutters into your chest. "Sometimes, yeah."

You grip him harder, rolling your chests together, as though if you squeezed him enough, he would melt into you and you could keep him. No such luck though.

"Why did you do this?" Sam asks.

"So I could talk to you."

Sam shifts, somewhere in your attempt to squeeze him into yourself, you ended up flat on your back with him on top. He's light, lighter than you thought he would be. But maybe you're just happy to have the _real _Sammy in your arms.

He leans back till he can see your face, fully. "You let the devil fuck you to talk to me?"

"Yeah," you say and squirm. "Well, you know, he asked. He said I could talk to you if I agreed."

Sam nods.

"You were awake for that?"

Sam pushes his hair out of his face. "Yeah. He uh," Sam clears his throat. "He has all my memories and feelings and," Sam turns bright red, staring down again, this time at your chest, won't meet your eyes.

"And what?" you ask.

"I always," he clears his throat again and shifts his weight on you. "I always wanted you."

If he wasn't only six inches away, you would have never caught that.

"So this was… This was to punish _you_?"

Sam nods and you can see the tears threatening in his eyes.

"Hey, Sammy," you mutter, voice soft, as you tilt his chin up with two fingers.

He meets your gaze this time and the tears spill freely down his cheeks. "Always wanted you, Dean. Couldn't have you. You're my brother. It's wrong, so I never said anything."

Your gut twists up and a rock materializes in your chest.

"Our first time and the devil instigated it," he says, his tears wobbling on his chin before falling and pooling in the hallow of your throat.

"It's okay, Sammy," you coo again, even though you know it isn't. "It's okay," you say and bring his chin down and your face up till you can kiss him.

He's soft and sweet and gentle and so different from the devil. He's pliant and melts into you, stomach to stomach, spent cock twitching against your thigh. He's miles of savory skin, silky to the touch. He hums into the kiss, puts his fingers on your face, hungrily asks for more.

Eventually, you break breathless.

"You can't want this. This was rape, Dean," Sam says, his voice wavering the whole way through.

You grab his chin. "Maybe I wouldn't have wanted it before," you tell him, "But I want it now."

You kiss him again to prove it, sliding your hands down his back and resting on the curve of his ass. Was Sam always this sexy or is this a recent development?

Sam's the one who breaks the kiss this time.

"If you agreed to this, was there something you wanted to say to me?" Sam asks, searching your eyes.

You could laugh, but you don't, you just cup his cheekbone with your palm and shake your head. "Nothing specific. Just, any reason to see you," you say, and now it's you who is going to cry. "I miss you, Sammy. I miss you so much and I couldn't save you this time."

"Don't, Dean. I'm the one who fucked this one up."

"We'll find a way. Don't we always?" you offer up.

Sam's fingers drift absentmindedly across your chest, trace the edge of your tattoo. His eyes are far away. "I'm think always ran out on us."

You set your jaw. The clock is running down on time to talk to Sammy, but you don't know what to say, so you just enjoy having him here, while you can. While he is your Sammy.

When you wake, you're met by the Devil wearing your brother's shit-eating grin.

He asks if you want to do this again sometime.

The apocalypse might be in full swing, and everyone else you know and love is dead, but sometimes, sometimes you let the devil bed you and in return you get to talk to your Sammy so, yeah, you guess things could be worse.

In that grand scheme sort of a way.


End file.
